Petit Gateau
by steelsilkfan
Summary: We all know Marinette fell for Adrien over an umbrella; here's the story of how Chloé fell for Adrien over a plate of cookies. Contains Chloé's admittedly not-excellent mother.


She's five years old, standing at the edge of her father's first mayoral election party in a stiff-collared party dress her mother had custom-made for the occasion: striped blue, white, and red – patriotic and, more importantly, a tasteful political neutral, although Chloé Bourgeois won't understand those words for a few more years.

What she does understand, even at five, is that she's supposed to be a good girl: don't run or fall down in her pretty new dress, give her best smile for the cameras, and don't get in the way.

Mommy had made that very clear, once when she woke up that morning and again when she was dressing Chloé for the party.

But that didn't matter, because Chloé was always a good girl, especially when Mommy said so. Mommy always knew exactly how to be good. When it was okay to cry so Daddy understood what she wanted. When to act like a cute girl so everyone would love her. When to stay out of Mommy's way.

And right now, she's staying out of Mommy's way, as a good girl is supposed to, even though it's past her bedtime and the blue lace of the dress is itching her neck and she wants to put on her favorite bumblebee pajamas and crawl under the covers of her big pink princess bed. But she can see that Mommy's talking to a tall, skinny man with gray hair and round glasses, so she knows better than to interrupt. Instead, she stifles a yawn and blinks sleepiness out of her eyes. If she's not a good girl, she'll ruin everything.

"You want a petit gateau?"

She's very surprised to hear this voice, which does _not_ belong to a grownup, and the curls beside her face bounce as she swings her head around.

A boy, just about her age, with bright blonde hair and brighter green eyes. She doesn't know yet how these eyes will torment her.

"Excuse me?"

"Petit gateau." She glances down and finally notices the boy has a plate filled with cookies, sables and palmiers and other kinds she doesn't like as much, and one of the macarons that had been on Daddy's big tiered cake was in the boy's hand on the way to his mouth. "I thought you might want one. Cause you don't have any."

What a strange boy. "I'm not supposed to have a lot of sugar," Chloé explains. Mommy says it's bad for her complexion, which Chloé understands to mean her face, and this boy's face is already very nice, so he probably doesn't need to be deprived of sugar.

"Me neither," he says cheerfully, stuffing the macaron into his mouth. Chloé just blinks at him. "Father doesn't like when I'm off my diet. But I like pastries."

He picks up a second, this time one of the langue de chat that were supposed to go with the ice cream. "Hey—"

"What?"

Red rises in her face. "That's too many sweets for a kid," she says accusingly. What she really wants to say is _you're supposed to be good_ , but maybe boys don't have to be as good as girls. Mommy always says girls and boys are nothing alike.

The boy shrugs, as if he can't be bothered with what's too many or too few. "You sure you don't want one? Nobody's looking."

At this, Chloé glances over her shoulder at Mommy, but Mommy's still looking at the skinny man and not at her. When she turns back to the boy, he has a questioning expression. "My mommy," she says, by way of explanation.

"The blonde lady talking to my father?"

"I don't know your father, so I wouldn't know."

"The man with the glasses you were looking towards." The boy stuffs another pastry into his face quickly, as if concerned the plate will be yanked out of his grasp. "He really doesn't like when I eat stuff that isn't on the list."

Chloé is very familiar with lists. Mommy has one for almost everything: what Chloé can and cannot eat, what designers she's allowed to wear, what places she can and cannot go. The Cannot side is usually longer than the Can.

"Why don't you do what your father says?" she asks. The accusation has gone out of her voice; she's simply curious now, wondering why this odd boy doesn't want to be _good_.

He chews a bit more, staring down at the remaining cookies on the plate, and Chloé wonders if the boy even knows why. But after a moment, he swallows. "Because his rules make him feel good, not me."

This is a revolutionary idea to Chloé. The idea that Mommy's rules and lists and instructions may only be good for Mommy. The idea is quite revolutionary – and it bothers her a _lot_. "But he's your father," she blurts out.

"My mom doesn't tell me I can't have a madeleine after dinner," he says. "Or not to run around in the yard. And she told Father he should let me go to school."

Chloé blinks. Daddy never tells her not to eat sweets or play outside – but Mommy does.

"I'm Adrien," the boy says suddenly, and she's abruptly aware of how intensely he stares at her. "My father is Gabriel Agreste. He makes nice clothes, so people always invite us to parties. Why are you here?"

"I live here," she tells him, still a bit ensnared by his gaze. "My daddy is the mayor now."

The boy – Adrien Agreste – nods solemnly, either understanding or pretending he does. "And you're not supposed to eat these, either?"

"Well – Daddy never said I couldn't," she admits. In fact, Daddy encouraged her to have the best things, like gelato when they went to Italy over the summer or a piece of cake on his birthday. It's just that Mommy always scolded her in private afterward.

"What kind do you like?"

She blinks at him. Then blinks at his plate. "Um – sables, I guess." The sables for the party were half-dipped in chocolate, which Chloé was almost never allowed to have.

"Okay." He picks up one of the dipped cookies, fragrant with lemon peel, and sticks it directly into her mouth.

It takes all the self-control in her five-year-old boy to stop herself from yelping loudly, which would certainly ruin the party. Instead, she takes a bite out of the cookie, letting the outer part fall into her hand and quickly chewing up the rest. "That wasn't nice!"

Adrien looks surprised by this. "But you said you like that kind."

"I never said you could put it in my mouth!" But she'd liked the cookie still. It was lemony and chocolatey and delicious, one of the best treats from TS Boulangerie Patisserie, but she could hardly admit that. "You shouldn't do that!"

"Adrien, is everything all right?"

A lovely woman approaches, kneeling down beside the two children. She is resplendent in a peacock-blue gown. Adrien gives her a smile almost as lovely as she is, and she looks to Chloé. "I'm sorry, sweetheart – did my son do something to you?"

"I just gave her a sable," he insists.

"You put it in my mouth without asking first," she complains. Her impervious voice has come back in the presence of a grownup.

The woman – his mother – frowns at him. "Minet, does that sound like something a gentleman would do?"

He looks cowed, and Chloé is entranced by the sight of it. "No, Maman."

She ruffles his hair. "Then I believe you owe this young lady an apology."

"I'm sorry for pushing it in your mouth," he says, glancing up at her through long golden eyelashes. Chloé can feel her heart pulse, and she feels like she would forgive this boy for any wrong.

That is not something she should say. "I guess it's okay, if you don't do it again," she says, although she would like him to do it again, more nicely and when she's expecting it. The chocolate from the cookie is starting to smear a little on her warm hand, and she angles it away from her dress.

Adrien's mother smiles again. "I'm sure he won't." Then, to Adrien, "I'm glad you've made a friend."

Something rises inside her chest. _A friend._

"Chloé!"

Mommy is sweeping towards them now – because Mommy is very graceful, and she does not run or rush, but rather sweeps or glides. She turns her face up to Mommy, who clucks like a hen at the sight.

"Oh, mon trésor, you've gotten crumbs all over your face!" Mommy fusses over her, wiping at her cheeks with a handkerchief produced from – somewhere – and Chloe can already sense the scolding she'll receive later for having messed the makeup Mommy spent so long applying.

"It seems Adrien pushed a pastry into her face," Madame Agreste says apologetically, pulling her son to her side. Chloé already misses his green eyes.

"I'm sure they were only playing," Mommy says. Her grip on Chloé's shoulder tightens.

Adrien's mother nods, and Chloé isn't sure whether she understands the expression on the woman's face. "Well, it's quite late – Gabriel and I must be going. It's past this one's bedtime, you know."

"Of course, of course. Chloé should be going to bed, as well."

It's not until she is helping Chloé undress for the night that Mommy mentions the Agrestes at all.

"It looks like you managed not to dirty this Agreste Children's original," Mommy says, shaking the dress and sliding it on a hanger.

"Adrien's father made that?"

"He designed it." Mommy turns back to look at her, and Chloé isn't sure whether she understands the expression on her face, either. It wasn't that it was the same sort of expression Madame Agreste had earlier – it was in fact more like the opposite. "Did you like the Agreste boy, mon trésor?"

Mommy only calls her that in front of people she wants to impress. Never when they're alone. "He pushed a sable in my face," Chloé says, unsure whether this is the right answer.

"He's incredibly rich. Or at least, one day he will be." Mommy turns, takes the dress to hang in the closet. "Boys who are that wealthy can do whatever they like."

Chloé isn't sure if she likes this idea, but if Mommy says so, it must be right.

She doesn't know what to say, what a good girl would say, so she says nothing. She watches as Mommy hangs the beautiful dress Adrien's father made and straightens its creases carefully.

"Chloé… how would you like to marry the Agreste boy?"

It is a strange question. Marrying is for grownups, and Chloé isn't a grownup, not yet. But she knows this is something she has to answer. "Adrien is sort of nice, I guess." She doesn't know why she doesn't tell Mommy about Adrien's pretty eyes. Maybe that's her first act of personal rebellion.

"Hm. That's good. Secondary, but good." Chloé doesn't understand what her mother means. She will, one day, but at five, she doesn't. But Mommy is insistent. "Chloé, you are a very pretty girl – you know that, right?"

"Thank you, Mommy." This is always the right response.

"I'd like you to marry a boy like Adrien one day."

Chloé wants to frown, but frowning is something she gets scolded for – it makes faces wrinkly. Still, she can't help one last question. "Why?"

"Because you're probably never going to be much more than a pretty girl."

She blinks. Mommy is always right – but this strikes her as a strange thing to say.

But Mommy doesn't stop. "You know your daddy can't take care of you forever. So I want you to marry a boy like Adrien one day." Her mouth curls into a shadow of a smile. "Maybe you can even marry Adrien Agreste himself. How would you like that?"

She thinks about Adrien's bright eyes, thinks about eating petit gateau together whenever they want to, thinks about always being the reason he smiles. "That would be good," she says, and she doesn't realize that her mother has entirely different reasons in mind.

"That's my good girl." Her mother strokes her hair gently, then tucks her into bed.

Chloé will not remember this conversation in ten years. In fact, she will remember only two things about this night. First, she will remember that this is the night she fell for Adrien's golden hair and green eyes. Second, she will remember that her mother told her to marry Adrien Agreste. And she will remember that was one of the last things her mother told her before she died.


End file.
